Wednesday, December 31, 2008
So while doing a little surfing on the world wide internets, I came across this website that is Queen Bitchy of the Bitchy Ass Websites. It is this site where waiters can go (anonymously of course) and post about how crappy or perfect it is to work at different restaurants around the city. You can just type in a restaurant and see how shitty the manager is, or how the kitchen is totally dirty but they'll let you eat for free. It's sorta like ratemyprofessor. com where you can see how hard or easy your teacher will be before you register for their class. Anyhoos, you should totally check it out. None of the places I have worked are on there, surprise surprise. But one of the places I like to eat is on the site. I won't tell you what they said about the kitchen. I will just have to forget it though because I will still so totally eat there anyway. Mice in the fountain and all.
CLICK HERE TO SEE IF YOUR RESTAURANT IS BITCHED ABOUT
Monday, December 29, 2008
I think everyone should be a waiter for six months of their lives. It would make the world a much better place, I just know it. Most people have never waited tables or if they have they forgot how goddamn shitty it can be to depend on total strangers to pay your income. Do you know what waiters usually make hourly? Less than minimum wage. I make $4.60 an hour. That means if I work 40 hours, I would only get $184 for the whole week. That does not even pay for my internets and phone service. Out of that humongous sum of money, I have to pay taxes on tips (whether I get them or not) and my paycheck is usually zero. That's right, I said zero. Waiters pay taxes on a percent of their sales even if they got stiffed on a check. If I ring up a $75 check and Cunty McCuntcunt decides to leave only $5, the government is still going to tax me as if I had gotten a 15% tip. Uh huh. I pay taxes on tips I don't even get. It sucks. Which is why customers must leave at least 15% for the tip. Some people are too stupid to figure it out, so they just leave 10%. Ignorance is not an excuse. If you need help, just double the tax so you would be leaving about 16%. Out of the tip that we are given then we have to tip out of it to the bartender and the food runner and the busser. I worked at one place once and we had to tip 40% of what we made. That sucked and I only lasted there for three days. But plenty of people work there and have to tip out the coffee girl, the guacamole maker, the hostess and the ass-wiper in the bathroom. If you have a crappy waiter, sure, maybe they don't deserve more than 10%. But a good one deserves 20%. I deserve 25%.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Table 201 is the winner for most annoying table of the day even though they were only there for about ten minutes. A mother and daughter, neither very attractive. That's not important to the story but I just wanted to point it out. Daughter waited at the bar for about ten minutes before Mother joined her and they moved to my station. I walked up to the table to greet them as is customary with my exemplary service. "Hello there, how are-" I was interrupted by Mother who sighed and rolled her eyes as she looked at me and said, "We are so not even close to knowing what we want." Okay. Enough said. Just trying to be friendly. So I ignored them until they called me over. Mother says, "Do you have another menu we can look at?" "No, sorry I don't. Only the brunch menu today." Mother sighed again and said "We are gonna have to go somewhere else then because my daughter is allergic to everything on your menu." Everything? She is allergic to everything? What did she think she was going to find on the dinner menu? A selection of various waters served at different temperatures? So leave then, fine with me. I go to ring up her check for her Diet Coke (which she is apparently NOT allergic to) and return to the table. Daughter apologizes that they must leave, like I care at all. She tells me, "It's just that I am allergic to anything raw and everything you serve has something raw in it." Uh huh. I look down at the slice of uncooked lemon floating in her Diet Coke and wonder what was raw in the scrambled egg platter with toast and hash browns. "I'm really sorry," she tells me. Again I tell her it is so totally fine that they are leaving. Good luck with your quest in finding a restaurant that serves cooked food.
CLICK HERE IF YOU LIKE THIS BLOG
CLICK HERE IF YOU LIKE THIS BLOG
So many mothers have this sense of fucking entitlement like she is the first woman to ever push a baby out of her Sweet Potato Pie Hole. It's been happening for thousands of years, no big whoop. I cannot write enough about my disdain for children in my station. I don't want them in my personal life so why the fuck would I want one at work? But people bring their babies in and then they think it's my responsibility to make sure the music is not too loud. Or they have the nerve to ask me to heat up their baby food. Why would they think I have time for that? It's not my baby. I am supposed to ignore my other tables and then bother the kitchen staff to heat up a bottle of milk? I'd rather you just breastfeed if it means I don't have to do anything. Not that I want to get a close up view of your areola when I refill your Diet Coke. These are the same people who bring babies to an R rated movie and think it's okay for everyone else to listen to it for two hours. No one cares about your baby except the people who know your baby (and some of them only act like they give a shit.) No one in the restaurant wants to step around your giant stroller or listen to it cry or watch you whip out your tit so it has an appetizer. Leave them at home with a sitter. Or just leave it alone while you come out to eat. I am sure it will be fine, whatever. Just leave a post-it note on it's head with your cell phone number so if there is a problem the police will know how to reach you. You could always take it to Chuck E. Cheese where they live for that shit. The people who work there love it when they have a room full of screaming babies. Or better yet, order in. We have take out menus. Just don't sit in my station.
CLICK HERE IF YOU LIKE THIS BLOG
Friday, December 26, 2008
Yes, Virginia, waiters really do spit in food. But you have to be a really bad little girl to have that happen to you, so most people are okay. I have been slinging hash for about 15 sad bitter years and I have seen it happen. I am not saying that I have ever done such a disgusting thing to a table because that is a little bit too far even for me-oh who the fuck am I kidding? I have done it twice. Once to this prick in Texas who I heard call me a fag to his buddies at the table so he got a big helpin' heapin' dose of Bitchy Waiter Spit in his free refill of Lemonade. I will reserve the other time I did it for another post. Sadly, spitting is not the worst thing I have seen. I worked at this restaurant once where that kind of thing happened a lot. If you ever ate at the Houlihan's in Times Square during the mid-90's I apologize. There was this waitress there who was dealing with the typical ignorant tourist fucks who are dumb enough to eat at tourist trap like Houlihan's. She was taking an order at a really loud obnoxious table and they were not listening to her. They were too excited about going to see Grease or Cats or some other stupid ass Broadway show that only tourists went to. She could not get their attention so someone at the table offered their assistance. He yelled out to his friends, "Hey let this girl do her job since it's probably the only thing she'll ever be good at!" I dunno why someone would say that about someone right before their food would be handled by that same someone, but he did. And he paid. When it came time for the food to come out, we all congregated in the kitchen to see what she was going to do. I will never forget it. First off, she took their plate of ribs and placed it on the floor. Then she stepped on it. Uh huh. They ate her dirty ass shoe germs. The guy with the burger got some very special fries. She took a handful of them and rubbed them all over the wall of the kitchen before putting them back on the plate and that wall was fucking disgusting. This was Times Square Houlihan's people, where we didn't clean and the rats got more shifts than we did. For their soup, someone else had a brilliant idea. They took the soup spoon and licked all over it and then put it on the plate. The waitress who licked all over it was really sick and didn't want to be there so she was in a shitty mood anyway and this was a good "fuck you" to the table and to our manager who made her come in to work. The last diner just got a good fashioned loogie stirred into her Oriental Stir Fry and she served it with a smile. That was good times, people. Good times. You wanna be nice to your server. If you want to be mean, do it after you eat. Never before. Unless you are stupid, in which case be prepared. Farting at your table is not the worst thing that can happen.
CLICK HERE TO FOLLOW THIS BLOG
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Over the years, I have always worked in restaurants that are open on the holidays. It sucks major Christmas balls. The servers always have to fight to see who has to work on Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, New Year's Eve and New Year's Day. The shittiest by far is Christmas Day. Why the fuck any restaurant wants to be open that day is beyond me. Of course the person who decides to be open on Christmas is not actually working that day. When I worked for a major hotel chain (who's name shall remain anonymous) it was a given that we would be open on Christmas, but do you think Mr. Fucking Marriott was at his office that day? I doubt it. But my ass was waiting tables on all the losers who don't have anything else to do on Baby Jesus' Birthday. And they all look at us with sad puppy dog eyes because they feel sorry for us working on a holiday like we didn't have anything else to do. Really, I look at them with sad puppy dog eyes because they are the ones who are at a restaurant by choice when they should be eating with their loved ones. You would think they would tip us a bit extra on those days but most people leave the same crappy ass 10% tip that they will leave any other day of the year. So don't go out to eat on a holiday. Maybe eventually restaurant owners will decide it's not worth it to be open and let their employees spend Christmas the way it was meant to be spent: celebrating the birth of Jesus Christ our Saviour, getting drunk and/or high and eating till you puke right before you open your presents. And now I have to go iron my fucking uniform for work. Happy Birthday, Jesus. How do you like your eggs?
CLICK HERE TO FOLLOW THIS BLOG
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Sometimes people think that when they come into the restaurant they are in their own kitchen and I am their personal chef for the day. No bitch, that is not how it works. We have this thing called a menu. M-E-N-U. It is this really great idea that someone came up with that tells you what we have to offer. You should read it. Someone was paid to create it and make it and print it. And then that girl at the front who showed you to your table gave you one for you to look at it. It is not for your devil spawn children to draw in or for you to use to flag me down. It is for you to choose what you want to eat. Some ass came in the other day and threw himself into a booth without being seated. Then he complained the table was sticky with syrup. (He HOPES it was syrup.) So he didn't have a menu and he ordered a chicken parmesan. Seriously? Does this look Bella Italia or The Olive Garden? No, ass, we are a diner. Burgers, salads, meatloaf. I ain't got no fucking eggplant rollatini so don't ask for that shit either. So I told him we don't have it. "What, you out of that today?" I suggested that he order two fried eggs with hash browns and toast because that is what we do. Or maybe a burger with a side of pubic hair because that is what he was about to get. This other douche bag came in last week and started ordering all this ala carte crap without looking at the menu. He ordered two eggs just like his friends. Fine. That comes with hash browns and toast. Then he says he wants French Toast too. Okay, we have that. And then he wants sausage. And coffee. And orange juice. It all came out, he ate it and then got his bill and had a fucking pissy bitch fit. He wants to know how three orders of eggs can cost more than twenty dollars. I told him it was simple mathematics. One order is $6.95 and when you multiply that by three it comes out to more than twenty dollars. See? It's easy, douche! He thought there was a better way I could have rung up his food so he did not have to pay for everything. I took him a menu. MENU! I showed him each thing he ordered. I asked him, "Is that what you had? Did it come to your table? Did you eat it all?" He answered yes to all these things. Then here is your bill. End of story. Read the fucking menu people and make both our lives a little easier, but I will still want to drop pubes in your burger, just so you know.
CLICK HERE TO FOLLOW THIS BLOG
Monday, December 22, 2008
This lady sat in my booth yesterday and ordered a Diet Pepsi. I told her "oh we only have Diet Coke, is that okay?" thinking that of course it would be okay. It's always okay. Unless you are the bitch that sat at table 204 yesterday. When the words Diet Coke fell from lips she looked like I just donkey punched her. "No Diet Pepsi, seriously?" Yeah lady, for real. So she had to "settle" for a Diet Coke like I care what she drinks. If you really want me to give a shit, then order a cocktail and then have another one so my check will grow into something substantial. Once I told some one we didn't have Diet Pepsi but maybe I could find one, like we have a secret stash of forbidden products in the basement. So I went to the soda gun and poured her a Diet Coke and then I sprinkled some Splenda in it because I think Diet Pepsi is sweeter than Diet Coke. Told her I found a bottle of her precious Diet Pepsi and bitch drank the shit up. I worked at another restaurant once where we never once had Ginger Ale but I sold it every day by putting a splash of Coke into a glass of Sprite and not once did anyone notice. Same thing with coffee and decaf. I serve everyone decaf because I don't need a bunch of caffeinated bitches in my station. And it's too much trouble to make two pots of coffee. No one knows the difference. How many times has someone told me they needed coffee SO bad and I just serve them a big ol' cup of steaming decaf? Every day. And then when I ask them if they feel better, they say "Oh God yes, I just cannot function without my caffeine." Uh huh. Whatever. You will drink what I serve you.
CLICK HERE TO FOLLOW THIS BLOG
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Have you ever been in a restaurant enjoying the company of good friends and savoring the taste of food that was made just for you when you are suddenly overcome with a rancid odor? An odor that surely came from the depths of hell where the devil lives in a palace of rotten boiled eggs, cabbage and asparagus. If it seemed to come out of nowhere and then fade away just as quickly, there is a very good chance that your server just farted at your table. Every server has done it but few will admit to it. I freely admit that I will fart at any table that gets on my nerves. So basically what I am saying is that I fart at every table I serve. All of them. I had about 40 tables today so I farted at least 80 times because I always do it at least twice for each check. Some may call it passive aggressive while others will call it immature but really it's just a basic human function when a reflex expels intestinal gas through the anus so get the fuck over it. If a table is being a supreme asshole than waiters will do what is known as a "Hippopotamus Fart". This is when all the servers at one time manage to get near the asshole's table and let one at the same time and then walk away. So the next time you smell that familiar funkity funk, don't blame it on the gruyere cheese that came on your Croque Madame. Blame it on yourself, because you probably pissed off your waiter and were paid back with a good old-fashioned Hippopotamus Fart.
CLICK HERE TO FOLLOW THIS BLOG
Saturday, December 20, 2008
So you know I hate serving kids, right? And mothers too? I really do, because they think that their kids are the only ones that matter in the whole entire universe. The truth is no one gives a shit about their kids except the parents and most of the time the father doesn't care either. I saw this family a few weeks ago and the entire family dynamic was on display and it made me so fucking happy that I have not bred. The kid was a being a huge brat saying he wasn't hungry while the mother was begging him to order something. The kid kept yelling that it was a waste of money because he wasn't going to eat it and the dad was saying just let him be. Then the mother jumped all over the father saying how the kid HAD to eat something. Meanwhile the other brat was crying for a milkshake for breakfast. The dad had this look in his eyes that made me cringe. It was like he just caught a glimpse of his future and realized that it SUCKED. He had a shrew wife and two ugly sons. He looked like a rabbit caught in a trap and like he was wishing for death. So the lady gets the son to order a burger that the kid says he won't eat any way. She orders it medium. When it comes out she flags me down like she just found ground glass in the patty. "Yes?" "I cannot feed this burger to my child. It's unsafe! Look at it! It's bloody!!" I looked at the burger and noticed that it had some pink in the middle which is what medium is so I tell her. "You ordered it medium. Medium has pink." And who fucking cares anyway because your asshole son doesn't want to eat it anyway. "This has too much blood, he can't eat it. It's dangerous for a child." So put a fucking tampon in it. Who cares? He ain't eatin' it anyway. I think there is a law that children under a certain age are supposed to only eat burgers cooked medium well, but I never bother because I personally don't give a rat's ass if their kids get sick with salmonella or scurvy or whatever the fuck you get from eating undercooked meat. Being the professional I am I tell her I will have the kitchen cook it a bit longer just to be safe. I take it to the kitchen and ask them to please burn the fuck out of this meat until it looks like a fossil. The kid finally eats the burger, the wife is bitchy to me the rest of the meal and the husband keeps shooting me looks that say "please save me." Uh uhh, ass wipe. Your kids, your wife, your shitty life. And don't forget to tip me.
CLICK HERE TO FOLLOW THIS BLOG
You know what? If you don't like something just say you don't like it. I don't for a minute buy that your ass is allergic to fucking celery. I almost want to put celery in your food just to prove that you are not allergic to it. It happens all the time. As usual, it almost always a woman. God, I hate women. She will sit down and look at the freaking menu for about a dozen years and finally order something but has to have this on the side and leave this out but instead put extra this. Some bitch tells me she is allergic to cole slaw. No one is allergic to cole slaw. If you don't want it on the side of your plate (and who does?) just tell me. I don't need some bullshit lie. Next time I am going to ask for a doctor's note when some lady tells me she'll break out in hives if mayo gets anywhere near her plate.
Friday, December 19, 2008
The restaurant I work in is not for children. I don't like kids. Cute ones are not any better than ugly ones, they all suck. However, people have in their head that our restaurant is for their children and constantly bring them in. When they come in with their offspring in the giant strollers and push furniture around to accommodate themselves it really pisses my shit off. For two Wednesdays in a row we have had a fucking Mommy and Me group overtake us. Nine women come in with at least nine strollers and then get all upset that there is no place to park them. Really? Why don't you park it up your fat asses, ladies? They take over a whole section and barricade themselves in behind the strollers. It's like the freaking Great Wall of China but instead of brick it's made of stroller and baby. And I can't get to the table to do the job that I don't want to do anyway. I have to navigate through the Stroller Wall being careful to not wake the little darlings just so I can take nine orders of salads with everything on the side and low fat dressing because they are all trying to lose their baby weight. Heads up ladies, the low-cal dressing that I am serving you is actually full fat because I don't give a shit about your baby weight. And you can all choke on the slices of lemon that you want for your water. You sit in my station for two hours and ignore your bratty crying whore children and ring up a check for 75 bucks and then tip me 10%. We don't have a children's menu, we don't have crayons or paper, the music is going to stay loud because that's what we do and we do not have American cheese. Get over it. Take your ugly baby and roll it down to McDonald's for a kiddie meal and while you're there get yourself a large number 5 combo because that baby weight is here to stay and you may as well live it up.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
I have noticed lately that more and more people feel perfectly fine bringing in their own cups of coffee to my restaurant. Do they not get how incredibly rude that is? We sell coffee. I have to French press it every time it's ordered so it's not like it's some skanky ass sludge that we call coffee and then overcharge for it. We charge two bucks for good premium coffee that we make to order. But every day some whore comes in straight from the Starbucks across the street with her grande mocha frappe fuckacino and sits in my station. It's always a women. Men don't do that. Would you carry in a Pizzeria Uno pizza to a Pizza Hut and eat there? No. Or would you order a frosty at Wendy's and then go eat it at Dairy Queen? No. But with coffee, people think it's okay. Stop it. What I hate most about it is if a bitch brings in her own coffee, when am I supposed to spit in it? A couple of weeks ago, when I brought the food to the table one lady was not there anymore. Her friends said she would be right back but she had to run an errand. Bitch showed up two minutes later with three cups of coffee from Dunkin' Donuts. What? For real?? I should have sold those three cups of coffee, increasing the check by $6.00 and therefore increasing my tip by a dollar. THEY ARE STEALING MY TIPS. Maybe next time I should just ring their food in to go and tell them I assumed they wanted to go eat it somewhere else.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Not only do I have the joy of serving food in a restaurant, sometimes I get to do it as a cater waiter. The best thing about these gigs is that the food is what it is. There is no ordering and if they don't like what we have, they can suck my left nut instead. Last night I was serving at this low-rent holiday office party affair where their budget was obviously really shitty. I worked the same event last year and they had a full bar with a huge buffet with tons of food. This year they cut the budget in half. I am sure that today at work they were all talking about how lame the holiday party was this year. They all showed up ready to chow down and all they got was my ass passing around a plate of mini grilled cheeses and some Pepperidge Farm cookies that got cut up and thrown on a plate with a flower. They was not happy. There is always one fat bitch who will knock people over in order to get to the tray of food and I found her right away. She hovered her fat ass right next to the kitchen door so she could grab whatever was on the tray. Seriously. She put something in her mouth and started chewing it and THEN asked me what it was. Lucky for her it was food, but for all she knew it was a used up condom on a cracker. Bitch was hungry. At the end of the night she was sitting at a table (because her legs were tired of supporting her huge ass) and she let her muffin top plop over her pants. It was clearly visible because she thought it was wise to wear a halter top. In December. On the East Coast. Another bitchy waiter acted like he was being nice to her and brought her a plate full of mini-donuts that were filled with Bavarian Cream and put it right in front of her. We wanted to see how many she would shovel in her mouth. Turns out, most of them. I think the other people at the table wanted a donut too but were scared to reach out for it in case she accidentally ate their arms off. Another lady grabbed me to ask me when the "real food" was coming out. I told her that this is all the food that is coming and it is in fact "real." She went on to inform me that she had not seen any food being passed and she needed food because she was pregnant with twins and had not eaten all day. It's my problem that bitch got knocked up with twins and then failed to eat breakfast or lunch? I let her know that the food is being devoured by Hungry Hungry Hippo over there next to the kitchen door. Pregnant lady tells me "Well I guess I will just wait by the kitchen door too, then!" Too bad she didn't know there were two kitchen doors, because I went right into the kitchen and told everyone to only use the back door for the next half hour. Hopefully she did not die of starvation. Or maybe one of the twins could have just eaten the other twin for nourishment. Do we really need another set of twins in the world anyway?
Sunday, December 14, 2008
I don't know what it is with old people, but I hope when I am old (in like six years from now) I don't lose my taste buds. I guess after living through the depression and having to eat boot soup and newspaper sandwiches, they just don't have the ability to taste anymore. Old people always send shit back. It's never hot enough. Yesterday this lady asked me for a cup of coffee making sure to tell me she meant hot coffee and not iced coffee. Like I am an idiot. So I got her coffee and made sure there was steam coming from it because when there is steam that means it's hot, right? Well, not when you serve it to an old dinosaur like this lady. Seriously, I think she was a first grade teacher for the caveman. She calls me over to tell me the coffee is cold. Not warm or luke-warm or even room temperature, but cold. She acted like it was one step away from being a coffee popsicle. So I smiled and resisted the temptation I had to knock her fucking false teeth out and went to get her some more coffee. OUT OF THE SAME POT. And guess what. By some miracle of miracles this coffee was much better. It must have been a magic freaking coffee pot that made it's contents change temperature by 20 degrees in a matter of two minutes. I was nice to her because old people make me sad. I just made fun of her in the side stand because she had a huge herpe on her lip that she probably picked up from blowing men for apples in 1933. "Blowjob for an apple, sir?" I can just see her. She counted out her pennies for my tip and shuffled out of my station. She should have saved the money she spent on coffee and bought some fucking Abreva for that cold sore. It was so big, I almost gave it it's own menu.
So this man came into my place of employment yesterday with his whore wife and their two whore children. They sat at a whore booth and let the kids play with the sugar caddies because that's what whore children like to do. I swear to God, what is the appeal of dumping a sugar caddie out in the table? I want to market it for the latest toy craze and make a million dollars on it. The kids play with that shit like it's a freaking Cabbage Patch doll, or whatever the latest craze is. (I know the Cabbage Patch craze was like 25 years ago, so shut up.) Anyhoo, he orders a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for his boy whore child. It's not on the menu. I tell him we don't have it and he looks like he is going to have a stroke or heart attack or some shit. "What? You don't HAVE peanut butter and jelly?" Nope, we don't have that. If it's not on the menu, that means we DO NOT HAVE IT. After he lifted his jaw off the floor he decided to order a bagel and he asked for it with jam. No problem. Then a light bulb went off over his head. He says to me, "so you have jam and you have bread and you must have peanut butter some where, but I can't order a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for my bastard son the retard?" Nope, we don't have that. "But-" Nope, we don't have that. "well maybe you can-" Nope, we don't have that. Meanwhile his wife finally pulled her head out of her ass and said to him to let it go. If it ain't on the menu, don't order it. Just because we have the ingredients to make a coconut fucking cake does not mean we are going to make one. We also have the ingredients to make whore child stew but don't order it. (The recipe is very simple. It's bits of whore child into boiling water with a carrot and bullion cube. But don't order it because we don't have it.)
myspace hit counter
Monday, December 8, 2008
So this lady drags her bratty ass children into the restaurant last week. "We're from California," she tells me like I am supposed to be all excited about it. Why do people from California think it's so cool to be from California? I don't give a shit where you are from, what you did before you got here or what you are doing after. Tell me what you want to eat and then leave a tip and get the fuck out. So she calls me over to ask me a favor. She wants to know if I can turn the television off for her. Never mind that there is some stupid ass football game on that a lot of people seem to care about, she wants it off. When I asked her why, she had a real doozy of an answer. She said that in her house (in California, you know!) they didn't eat with the TV on because they wanted their kids to pay attention to them instead. And here in our restaurant with the television on, the kids were distracted and paying more attention to it than to her. Seriously, she said that. I told her no even though I was thinking that maybe if she was more interesting and not such a bitch her kids might like her more.